


Sugar

by Nepheline (orphan_account)



Category: Life Is Strange (Video Game)
Genre: AU, F/F, Fluff, chasefield, i really enjoyed writing this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-07
Updated: 2017-01-07
Packaged: 2018-09-15 14:01:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9238052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Nepheline
Summary: The more that Victoria tries to read Max’s unreadable moments, the more she studies the way her eyes flicker and her lips press into a thin line and the way she just LIVES, and it’s beautiful in all of its mundanity. Max notices her staring and feigns obliviousness, and there’s no stolen gazes if they’re freely given. (Chasefield one-shot. A.k.a, Victoria Chase realizes she's really gay.)





	

Victoria just isn’t a nice person by virtue. And people who are not nice by virtue naturally hang around other people who aren’t nice by virtue, and she’s vaguely aware she’s part of a clique. Peers who spill their depths in drunken hazes but are still, on the surface, judgemental enough to rise above the social standard that is to be _nice._

It isn’t like she has a specific hatred that is stronger than any other. Students and teachers alike piss her off on a daily basis, and she’s learned to snark her way out of any possible conversation. But _god_ , it’s like that hippy girl seeks to make Victoria’s day miserable. She is, of course, quiet, a goody-two-shoes with a penchant for ancient cameras and some sort of an assumed morally superior air buried under honeyed words.  That alone would be annoying, but manageable on its own if Maxine Caulfield wasn’t actively trying to defy Victoria’s ‘don’t like you so we don’t talk’ rule despite having gotten the hint ages ago.

Already under stress to overachieve, Victoria starts putting effort into a side task: to hate.

It’s easy enough to convince herself that she hated the way that Maxine Caulfield zones out during class as if she’s too important for education. It’s easy to think that she hates the way that girl butts into conversations she isn’t a part of, trying to be the ‘bigger person’ as if she isn’t already an ant in a sea of giants. But even Victoria can admit that it’s a strong word to state, and it’s vastly different from annoyance and frustration and the combination of the two.

When she’s drawn into a project with pre-assigned partners that she can’t reasonably wiggle out of, Victoria is seething. First for the cruel nature of her teacher, and second for Max Pretentious Vintage Hipster fucking Caulfield being her partner. The latter is just as displeased with the arrangement and pleads to the teacher with those doe eyes that practically scream of vulnerability even when she’s not, but he won’t budge. Victoria hates – no, she is _frustrated_ with the way that Caulfield can’t learn how to stand up to herself without resorting to a pathetic pity party.

It’s imaginably hell when they meet, both awkward and resentful and Max biting her lip sharply enough to draw blood in an attempt not to verbally harass Victoria. If she were being honest to herself, she is only trying ‘not to stoop to her level’, but Victoria knows built-up resentment when she sees it. After some increasingly passive-aggressive remarks, they set down to a discussion about school, which goes just about as well.

They begrudgingly continue meeting anyway, and Victoria unknowingly takes a moment more to study the flash of hurt on Max’s face at each jab. Similarly, Max seems a little more intent at the pauses in conversations, in a way that she had first sought out slivers of hope in an ocean of despair, meaning slivers of niceness in an ocean of _Victoria_. Her own jabs are still admittedly hurtful – even though Victoria refuses to show direct reaction – but toned down a little with each time they stop talking and uncertainly steer the conversation to just about anything else. Sometimes that goes well. Most times, it doesn’t and they’re left hiding behind steel walls, strengthened only from the moments of letting their guard down.

Victoria doesn’t feel any less frustrated. But she does feel like covering one of their discussion meals once, when Max is perfectly able to pay for her own. Of course, just for the reason that it’s faster than having both of them scramble for their part of the bill, and of course, Max just takes too damn long for her part anyway. Max subtly returns the favour by offering to return an overdue library book, because, of course, it was on her way and of course, Victoria is irresponsible not to keep track of the time she’s spent with it.

They’ve long turned in the project. Certain to be a good grade, which Victoria begrudgingly agrees on. Max is intelligent and, even if she zones out, works her ass off, just like any damn student in Blackwell should. Still, Max comes by Victoria’s room anyway, to return a bracelet that she had accidentally left behind. Mystery is solved about where that stupid thing was, but not why Max had been withholding it for weeks after their mandatory discussion is over.

She lingers for a minute in the room before turning to leave, and on impulse, Victoria asks her if she’s doing well. Smugly, of course, and framing it to look like some form of lowkey mockery, but a conversational piece nonetheless. They talk – passive aggressively, but they talk, and Victoria subtly encourages Max to move further into the room rather than wait for either one of them to drop the conversation and leave. She takes the hint, and after Victoria sees her out with the usual ‘don’t let the door hit you on the way out’, the air is much less stiff.

Victoria leaves a paper bag of her favourite donuts on her doorstep, reasoning that they bought a ton for a gathering and there were some left uneaten, and she isn’t a fan of them anyway, and now they’re ‘even’ for the returned bracelet. It’s an impulsive purchase – only because of the vague memory of Max mentioning it during an unguarded moment. They really aren’t Victoria’s flavour.

Max smiles at her when they cross ways in the hallway, and Taylor raises a brow. Victoria just tells her friend to fuck off and they move their way, but knowing that she had caused a smile on that hipster’s face that isn’t smug satisfaction feels just a little bit _good._

She spots Max cradling a familiar novel, and casually strikes up a conversation. And they’re just so at _ease_ , even if neither of them can help a few playful insults sent each-other’s way. Victoria begrudgingly accepts that her presence is warm and gentle and she would like to milk it fully, because Maxine Caulfield has a nice laugh and a nice sense of humor, different in a bizarre but undoubtedly good way from the way that her friends behave.

They’re not friends. Victoria Chase and Max Caulfield do not match. Still, the latter somehow enchants the former into shoving aside all her perceived morals whenever they talk, and in a passive, non-judgemental way, Max learns more of her than Victoria is willing to give to anybody.

 “So why do you feel the need to drag people down? I don’t understand.”

It’s one of their first conversations in a long time that isn’t guarded and just straight-up reeks of admittedly necessary honesty, even if Victoria scowls at the question.

“I’m not a nice person, Max. Every and each of you are just NICE, you do nice things for people without expecting a shred of it back and I’m just not one of those people.”

Max falls silent. Victoria doesn’t expect a response, anyway.

“Nice is different than good, Victoria.”

“Is that another obscure quote I’m detecting?”

“First of all, it’s not nearly as obscure as you think. Second of all, don’t ignore the topic.”

“What the fuck do you want me to say?”

The brunette shrugs her shoulders, averting her eyes. “Iunno. I was trying to be inspirational.”

“You’re failing.”

“Thanks.”

Whether Victoria was ‘good’ or not is a pretty gray area, too, and she knows it. Maybe it’s what drives her to give Max that olive branch of sincerity, so who knows – it might just be the noble goodness of the heart. Yeah, right.

Max starts looking a little bit flustered when they talk.

She’s just as quick to respond as always, but there is this distant quality in her voice and movements that Victoria immediately calls out. Conversations flow easily, like a river, and Victoria is still too fixated on the way that Max starts zoning out a little _while they talk_. And damn it, she’s cute when she’s being contemplative and it’s funny when she snaps out of it.

She’s the catalyst of a storm in Victoria’s conscience and she knows it.

The more that Victoria tries to read Max’s unreadable moments, the more she studies the way her eyes flicker and her lips press into a thin line and the way she just _lives_ , and it’s beautiful in all of its mundanity. Max notices her staring and feigns obliviousness, and there’s no stolen gazes if they’re freely given.

Shit.

No.

She is no fool to crush on fucking Max Pretentious Vintage Hipster Caulfield, infuriator exceptional.

Victoria is vigilant, and notices how much more Max tries to lighten the mood, and the red shade on her face confirms in everything but proper words that she reciprocates whatever Victoria has gotten herself into.

So she avoids her, hoping it’ll just go away in time.

But Max is frustrating.

She kept disregarding Victoria’s one rule of not talking and she’s doing it again.

They’re on the roof now, inexplicably – a solitary place that Victoria can pull strings to pry open during times it shouldn’t be. There’s just always something that draws them to talk, wherever they are, and Victoria has a hard time believing she just roped herself into one of those awkward, semi-sentimental situations after vowing not to.

Max squints at Victoria, blue eyes judging her intensely. She knows she deserves it – leaving someone she can possibly call a friend, hanging and waiting for an answer, always raises questions. But she doesn’t want to talk, and it doesn’t help that she just can’t avoid Max’s stupidly innocent, curious looks.

So. Naïve. Damn it.

Victoria exhales, waiting for something to stir, only to receive contemplative silence. The air is crisp and cold, and she remembers she needs to stop wearing stupid shit when going out, considering the warm seasons have already passed.

Max speaks. Finally. “What’s on your mind?”

A lot is on her mind, like how and why they literally just snuck into an off-limits place to sit around doing nothing. “Do you want my complete honesty?”

“I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t want your honesty, Victoria.”

A lot is on her mind, like how Max slipped up and called her ‘Vic’ a few times, then refused to continue.

“Well—“

She throws her hands up in the air. “I want to kiss you, Max.”

Like how Max began noticing when her face is a dark shade of red and ducked her head and how Victoria subconsciously started doing the exact same thing. “I want to kiss your stupid freckles, your stupid kissable freckles and your lips that just don’t shut up at all the wrong times, god dammit, I want—I want to do it and I wanted to do it yesterday and the day before that and on many other days.”

Victoria’s breath hitches, stuck in her throat. She can be super catty, but complete honesty doesn’t suit her. Neither is it a particularly good idea. She doesn’t look to meet Max’s eyes.

“Then do it.”

She finally looks. Max appears startled, to say in the least – it’s etched on her cursedly sweet facial features. But she speaks anyway, issuing the uncertain challenge, and Victoria waits a moment more. And then another, and another, until Max grows frustrated.

“So?”

“I was kidding.”

_For FUCK’S SAKE, VICTORIA._

It’s not an amenable silence this time, even though she knows that Max knows she’s lying.

“Stop fucking doing that.”

Max swears quite a bit – not like one would be able to guess just by looking at her baby, doe-eyed face. Still, Victoria raises a brow.

“Don’t just—don’t just say all of this and then back out of it,” She continues on further, pleading, putting on that stupid pity party all over again. “You can’t take back your words. You say them anyway. And you’re doing it again now. What the fuck?”

Victoria winces, knowing full well that this is a quite intentional jab at her cruelty. And Kate Marsh. Come to think of it, she hasn’t thought of Kate Marsh in a while. Not that it’s a good time to consider her.

“Okay, maybe I wasn’t kidding,” Victoria huffs, folding her arms. It’s partially for the look of an attitude, but, also… she’s getting pretty cold. “But I can’t just—I can’t just kiss you because you’re telling me to. This is not a rom-com where we get the happy ending and elope into the _world of love_ , this is real life, Max Caulfield. It would be weird, and sudden, and what if it doesn’t mean anything? You asked me for my honest thoughts. I gave you my honest thoughts. Just, for once, stop trying to escalate things and get to the bottom of them.”

She’s out of breath by the time the tirade fades into the wind. When she finally wills herself to look back at Max, back at that damn kissable face, her companion is grinning.

“You. Love. Me.”

“ _SHUT UP_.”

She laughs, filling the air with the beautiful sound that is her voice and Victoria laughs, too, her chest bursting with warmth like she had once again fallen into the enchantment that is this stupid, naïve, nosy girl.

They don’t kiss.

When Victoria feels the other’s shoulder brushing against hers, she’s mildly startled. Even more so when Max attempts to drape half of her jacket over her, and she’s desperate to be warm, no matter how embarrassing it is. She scoots closer into the embrace of Max’s unfashionable, cheap cloth and lightly bumps her head against hers. It’s not an ideal arrangement, and Victoria is more uncomfortable than warm, and definitely and absolutely flustered at the sheer intimacy of their skins pressed so closely against each-other.

“You can say that nice is different than good all you want,” she murmurs softly, “but I’m not good, either. Why do you pretend I am?”

Max exhales loudly. “Because you haven’t proven me wrong yet.”

Victoria scoffs. “I’ve always proven you wrong. A good person doesn’t push their contacts into the gutter for the sake of achieving their ambition. I mean, look at me. I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be doing this with you. I’m monopolizing my own future to be with some hippy.”

Max lets out an indignant “Hey!” and hits her companion’s arm just nearly hard enough to hurt. She continues, nonetheless, “I can’t balance, Max. It’s either one or the other. And, spoiler alert… It’s not going to be you.”

Silence, all over again. And then, out of the blue, a meek “Okay”. She should already know it’s not entirely personal.

“But-“ Max begins, and shushes Victoria before she can interrupt. “If you don’t want to have to balance, at least try not to ruin this. We don’t have to be dating. You don’t have to kiss me if you don’t want to. But don’t make this weird. I like you, Victoria, I really fucking like you. You’re a bitch, sure, but I know you can go beyond that.”

“Now who’s making it weird?”

“Damn, you’re right.”

“Fuck, you’re making this harder for me.”

“Then I’ll make it easy for you.”

And then all Max has to do is lean in, and press lips against lips, and suddenly Victoria feels warm again. She leans in into Max and tugs at that ratty jacket to cover her one exposed shoulders, and her other hand is clutching the delicate material of her pink Jane Doe shirt. It hits her just how thin and easily breakable this girl is, a ray of innocence in an ocean of dark guilt.

Victoria is too tainted by the social hell that has been her whole life to be innocent, and she knows it. But she laps up the intimacy like a drug, like a glass of water for a throat long dry, and only lets the kiss go when Max pulls back and bumps her forehead against hers.

“We’re still not dating.”

Max chuckles under her breath. “Whatever, Ice Queen.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Frost Queen.”

“I said no.”

“Snow Queen.”

“Fuck you, Max.”

Maybe she’d have to learn to balance, after all.


End file.
